


this blood on my hands (is yours)

by emavee



Series: Whumptober 2020 [23]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Electrocution, Gen, Hurt Dick Grayson, Stitches, Torture, Whump, this is a pretty heavy one folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:22:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29125659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emavee/pseuds/emavee
Summary: “Please,” Dick whispers. He’s panting, trying to regain the ability to breathe. “Please, B.” Most likely he thinks Bruce is being controlled or brainwashed. He’s probably hoping to break through any sort of conditioning. Bruce really wishes that were the case.Or: They give him a choice — either torture Nightwing or they'll do it themselves.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Series: Whumptober 2020 [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948276
Comments: 17
Kudos: 200





	this blood on my hands (is yours)

**Author's Note:**

> hello! pls accept this super late whumptober fic that i finally finished :)

_“Again,”_ the voice in his ear commands. They sound almost bored, despite the way Dick convulses in his restraints, twitching and grunting as he tries to hold in any noises of pain. Bruce’s hand trembles just slightly as he drags the knife through Dick’s bicep. The blade slides through his skin like butter, and Bruce’s only solace is that it’s his hand and a sharp blade, rather than that rusty serrated thing they’d promised to wield themselves, should he refuse their challenge.

The blood wells up immediately, running in rivulets down his arm to splash into the steadily growing puddle beneath Dick’s dangling body. He’s chained to the ceiling, hanging by his wrists. His knees brush the floor, but the chains aren’t long enough to allow him to properly rest his weight on them. It must be hell on his shoulders and the first blood spilt had been from where his wrists had rubbed raw as he’d swung and shifted in his chains.

“It’s okay,” Dick grits out between clenched teeth. At least he knows. At least he realizes that Bruce doesn’t want to be doing this. This is the last place he’d rather be, the last thing he’d rather be doing.

 _This is saving his son from more pain._ He’s repeated those words to himself over and over since this whole ordeal began hours earlier. They’re starting to lose their meaning.

“It’s okay,” Dick repeats, and it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself than reassure Bruce at this point. 

Bruce clenches his jaw, wishing he could break down and apologize so profusely to his son. He doesn’t want Dick to have to infer his guilt; his son should know for sure that Bruce has no choice. But he can’t. He can’t show that vulnerability. That’s what these people want. They want to break him, and they want to know he’s broken. Any weakness or care he shows will only hurt Dick more in the long run.

 _“Again,”_ the voice snaps, harsher this time. _“Mark him. Carve your symbol into his flesh. Make him match you.”_

Bruce glances down at the bat on his chest. It’s his symbol, meant to be a pinnacle of justice, a symbol of fear for his enemies but protection for the people of this city that he loves so much. It’s always meant safety for his Robins, even now that his first partner is too big for the yellow cape and pixie boots.

In this moment, all he can think about is a four-foot bundle of energy, flitting around him and naming everything in sight with the prefix “Bat.” 

_(“The_ Bat _computer,” Dick corrects, with a roll of his eyes and his hands on his hips. “You have to stick to the theme, B.”_ _He’s nine. He’s missing a tooth. Bruce wishes he wasn’t such a hero at his core, that he would stay home and safe instead of joining Bruce on his mission.)_

His hand trembles again, and he squeezes the hilt of the knife tighter to try and hide it. Dick’s blood slides down the blade and drips softly onto the floor.

_“Do it, Batman. Or we’ll brand it on him instead. You have ten seconds.”_

He doesn’t quite snap out of his memories, flashes of nine-year-old Dick still flickering in and out of view with each labored rise and fall of Dick’s chest. Bruce steps in front of him, steadying his son’s hanging form with a hand on his shoulder. Dick flinches almost imperceptibly at the touch, but there is no place on his skin that isn’t already so marred that it would cause pain with merely a touch. 

Nightwing had been stripped of the top half of his suit at the very start of the torture. Bruce hadn’t been the one to do it, resulting in several nicks against his skin as they’d been less than careful when cutting the material away. That was back when Bruce was still refusing to lay a hand on his son. 

(He’d given in when they’d brought out the tire iron, reminding Bruce between the brutal, bone-snapping hits to Dick’s torso that they would only leave if he used his own fists in their place. 

He could only pull his punches so much with them watching his every move, but at least he could spare him that little bit.)

Dick’s chest is already a mess of purple bruises, some in the discernible shape of Batman’s gauntlets, and a winding labyrinth of shallow cuts. Bruce tightens his hold on Dick’s shoulder to hold him steady. He can taste bile in the back of his throat.

He has already hurt his son more than he can stand. It’s already hard enough to face him, knowing that every half-contained whimper and pained moan is at Bruce’s hands. But this is different. This is Bruce’s symbol, his signature, carved into his son’s skin. It will scar, and it won’t be just another mark on skin already damaged from years as a vigilante. Every time he showers or looks in the mirror Dick will remember what Bruce did to him. There will be no way to separate the scarring from the man who was supposed to be his father. 

_“...Four, three, two—”_

Batman lurches into action at the sound of the countdown. Dick jerks and whines sharply with every curve of the blade, his breaths coming in strained pants. Bruce does his best to go fast and be gentle, but as he rounds the final shape of the wing, a scream finally tears its way out of Dick’s throat. 

Something inside of Bruce shatters as he yanks the blade away. Dick’s eyes are squeezed shut, sweat dripping down his face and plastering his hair to his forehead. The Bat symbol drips red down his front, a sick and twisted mirror of Bruce’s own untouched armor. 

The Bat on his own chest burns in reflection of the one dripping lines of red down Nightwing’s stomach. It feels like there’s a hole where Bruce’s heart and lungs used to be, stealing his breath away.

“I’m okay,” Dick says. “I’m alright. I’m okay.” Bruce wishes he wouldn’t. It’s not okay. It’s not _alright._ Dick is dripping blood. His ribs are broken, his shoulders dislocated. 

Bruce hasn’t said a word this entire time. His mouth is stuck shut, even as he begs his son for forgiveness in his head.

 _“Finally he sings.”_ The voice sounds entirely too cheery. Rage coils in Bruce’s stomach at the sound of it. _“Let’s hear it again. There’s a cattle prod on the table. Use it.”_

Bruce doesn’t move, continuing to stare at Dick as he tries to gather himself. Whispers of “I’m okay” ghost his lips over and over, and this time Bruce knows they’re not for his benefit at all.

 _“Do it, Batman. Or we will, and we will soak your boy with water first.”_

His boy. _Dick._ If they douse him with water before electrocuting him, the pain will be so much worse. The current could kill him, and that’s something Bruce simply cannot risk.

He picks up the cattle prod. He picks up the cattle prod and steps towards Dick and Dick’s eyes go wide.

“B—” Dick chokes. He can barely lift his chin to look at Batman’s cowl. Blood dribbles over his bottom lip and Bruce prays that he bit his tongue. “I don’t understand, B. What’s happening? I don’t under—I don’t understand. Where am I? Where are we?”

_“Now.”_

Bruce presses the cattle prod against Dick’s side and suddenly the electricity is convulsing through his body. The shout that tears its way out of his throat is jerky, as every muscle in his body locks and arches and shakes.

Bruce pulls away as quickly as he’d struck.

“Please,” Dick whispers. He’s panting, trying to regain the ability to breathe. “Please, B.” Most likely he thinks Bruce is being controlled or brainwashed. He’s probably hoping to break through any sort of conditioning. Bruce really wishes that were the case.

 _“Again.”_ Bruce does. He feels numb. Then Dick screams again and it’s like _Bruce_ is the one being electrocuted the way it jolts through him. The sound echoes in his mind, blurring with the actual screams to form some sort of cursed echo chamber. 

Again and again and again. He tries his best to give Dick time to breathe between each shock, tries to give him ample time to prepare himself.

_“Again, or I’ll have you whip him instead. Or start cutting off fingers. Do you think Nightwing will be able to fly again with nine fingers? How about eight? Five? None?”_

Bruce electrocutes his son again, and then a second time without having to be prompted. He wants to be sick. He has never hated himself more.

“I forgive you,” Dick says, voice barely there, vocal cords shredded to pieces. “I don’t know what’s happening, but I forgive you, B. I know you don’t want to do this. I forgive you, okay? I need you to know that.”

Part of Bruce wants nothing more than to break down in sobs. He can’t stand this. He doesn’t deserve this forgiveness, but his heart clings to it, desperately and selfishly, nonetheless. 

He can’t help it, he reaches out before he can stop himself. His fingers twitch and curl, longing to smooth through his son’s sweat- and blood-matted hair.

 _“I’m tired of this yapping. Shut him up.”_ Bruce’s blood runs cold and he yanks his hand away, realizing his fatal mistake. They know he’s breaking, and they want to push him the rest of the way. He didn’t think he could be more terrified of the voice in his ear, but this is the worst case scenario. 

There is nothing that will shut Nightwing up that won’t be absolutely devastating for everyone involved.

_“There is a needle and suturing materials on that table. I want you to stitch his mouth shut.”_

No. Not this. He can’t do something so cruel… 

The first time Bruce had to do stitches on Dick, he’d nearly lost his head. Dick had been shot—just a graze along his upper arm, but it had required fifteen stitches. Alfred hadn’t been available, and Bruce had been panicking. Dick had toughed it out as best as a ten-year-old could, with only a few whimpers and sniffles. Afterwards, Dick had offered him a watery smile, as Bruce caved and pressed on two Superman bandaids overtop, just to try and make him giggle. 

Bruce had still hated every moment, and he’s hated every other moment since where he’d seen his children hurting and bleeding.

No. _No._ He can’t. Not this. 

Dick is loud. He’s chatty and noisy and full of energy. He’s puns and quips and life and trying to imagine him silenced is too difficult. He can’t do this. Not this. Not to Dick. He can’t. He won’t. 

He must be shaking his head without realizing it because suddenly the voice is hissing in his ear: _“Do it. Do it or I cut out his tongue. He’ll never speak again. He’ll drown, choking on his own blood and he won’t even be able to say goodbye. So do it. Spare him that fate.”_

It doesn’t take much to imagine those words, to see them play out in his mind. The Dick in his imagination tries to scream, but he can’t. He chokes and sputters, convulses and twitches in Bruce’s arms. His mouth moves, but the only sounds that emerge are wet and whimpering. If he didn’t asphyxiate, he’d most likely bleed out. Bruce would hold him the whole time, as he grows cold and still, but there will be blood everywhere, staining everything. Staining his very soul.

Stitches can be removed. His mouth can heal, and he’ll still be able to speak, even if he never wants to talk to Bruce ever again. That would be okay. Bruce could endure, if it means Dick is alive to avoid him.

“Everything will be okay,” Bruce mumbles as he approaches Dick, needle and thread in hand and he barely even registers the fact that he picked them up. His body feels as though it’s moving on autopilot. “Everything is going to be okay, just hold on. Hold on for me, chum.”

“B—”

Bruce holds his chin, gently at first and then harder when Dick tries to shift to look up at him on his own terms. Dick whines at the sudden harshness of his grip. 

“Stay still, okay?” he says as he presses Dick’s lips closed. Dick stares up at him with confusion in his pain-hazy eyes. “Stay as still as you can.”

He tries to be gentle, but there’s no merciful way to sew a conscious person’s mouth shut. After the first two stitches, Dick can no longer try to open his mouth or risk tearing his skin and lips on the thin thread. That does nothing to stop the agonized noises that come from deep in his throat, rising higher and higher in pitch as he panics. 

Bruce’s fingers shake as he ties off the final knot. The horrifying image in front of him forces him to swallow down bile. The thread is black, with blood welling up around each puncture. It’s completely gruesome. Bruce drops the needle as if it’s on fire, losing it somewhere amongst the blood and grime coloring every inch of the cell floor. 

It's a truly gruesome sight. Bruce knows he will have nightmares about it for years to come.

Dick won’t look at him, but Bruce still sees it anyway. Betrayal. Between the stark lines of agony, that’s all Bruce can see, it’s etched in every facet of his expression. His son hates him. He’s crossed the line, there’s no coming back from this. The relationship he’s rebuilt with Dick is forever shattered.

He cups Dick’s cheeks as gently as he can. Dick still avoids his gaze, even if he’s too weak to flinch away from Bruce’s touch. “I’m sorry,” Bruce whispers. “I’m so sorry, chum. Please—Please forgive me. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

In a desperate, grief-stricken moment, he stoops and presses his forehead to Dick’s as he continues to murmur useless apologies. Dick whimpers low in his throat, the muffled sound stabbing and twisting in Bruce's chest, shredding his heart to pieces. 

_“This is a very touching sight, but I’m getting bored. I want to hear what he sounds like trying to scream through those sutures. Cattle prod, Batman. Again.”_

But Bruce can’t move. He can’t. The cattle prod lies discarded on the dirty floor, and Bruce doesn’t even want to think about it. He doesn’t pull away from his son, wiping away desperate tear after desperate tear from Dick’s cheeks.

He’s already in so much agony. Bruce has already ruined him. He can’t do anything more, can’t pick up that cattle prod and make things even worse. It’s too much. This is too much. Too high a price. 

_“Now. Now, Batman. Or would you rather one of us come back in with you? I’d be nice enough to let you hold him, if you’d like, while I cut out his eyes. That would be fun, I think. Really fun. Actually, I kind of hope you choose to keep resisting us.”_

The threats barely even faze him anymore, even though they should. Anguish already squeezes all the way down to his soul. Does it even matter what they say? Is all this pain even worth it? It’s so hard to see a way out of this cell anymore, like his heart has just accepted that Dick will die here. It’s only a matter of time.

Bruce thinks about the table in the corner, about the syringe in the center of an array of torture devices. They told him what it was, giving him the option from the start. At first he’d thought it ridiculous. These imbeciles couldn’t really expect Batman to actually kill his old partner. But now…

Lethal injection. It would be painless. Dick would lose consciousness first, before his breathing and heart began to fail, just like falling asleep. It would be mercy. 

Their captors must have some ending planned, and Bruce knows—this ends with Dick dead. It’s only a matter of how painful that death is, and how long Bruce puts it off, prolonging his growing confusion and agony.

But he can’t. As much as he loathes seeing his son suffering this way, he can’t give him this mercy. There’s just something too bitterly stubborn inside of him, something that will never give in, no matter what, not even when surrender might be logical. 

They just have to hold out, just in case they’re miraculously rescued. His other children are out there. Barbara is out there, and so is Clark and the League and Dick’s Titan friends. Someone could still come for them, and like hell is Bruce going to be the reason his son doesn’t live to see them.

They want him to give in, to use the drugs and end this. It would break him completely, and what villain doesn’t want to break the Batman? He is already fractured and cracked, pieces that will surely never heal completely. Killing his own son, even to spare him, will wreck every last piece of him until he is unrecognizable. 

No. The contents of that syringe are truly unthinkable. Dick is strong, so strong. The strongest person Bruce knows. And Bruce can’t lose him, can’t lose another son. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers one last time. Dick doesn’t even seem to hear him, so Bruce settles for lightly stroking his thumb across his bruised cheekbone, trying to convey a world of apologies in the minuscule action. 

When he pulls away and steps back, Dick’s chin falls to meet his chest with nothing left to support his head. 

Bruce picks up the cattle prod and not the syringe and tries not to listen to the way Dick sobs behind his stitched-shut mouth. 

He strikes, and Dick screams. The stitches don’t muffle the sound, not truly, not enough. Instead, they almost feel as though they’ve been amplified. At least, it seems that way to Bruce. It’s all he can hear, even once the electricity has stopped and Dick is desperately panting for breath. It’s all he can hear as he watches Dick fall apart, chest heaving and head shaking back and forth as he silently begs for it all to stop. It's all he can hear as he tracks the way the blood runs down from the aggravated holes in Dick's lips.

It’s all he can hear as the door bursts open and flashes of black and red blur around them. Jason shakes his shoulders and Tim tries to find some way to snap him out of this non-existent mind control and Cassandra works on the chains and Dick still screams.

* * *

“It must have been very difficult to watch,” Alfred says, resting a hand on Bruce’s harm in an effort to be comforting. Bruce shrugs him off, unable to stomach the idea of being comforted over this.

They’re in the Cave, but Bruce has put as much distance himself and Dick’s unconscious form as he possibly can. Alfred is checking him over, but he won’t find much. No, Bruce is pretty much unscathed. There is nothing but the minuscule puncture wound where he was hit by the dart that sedated him in the first place. 

Dick was the only one seriously hurt. Alfred keeps saying that he’ll be fine eventually—he has said it so often and so reassuringly that even Damian has pulled himself away from his side to shower and sleep—but none of that matters to Bruce. They’d removed the thread from his lips and set his broken bones. Bruce had nearly lost it all over again when Alfred pulled out his own suturing materials. He’d been halfway to charging in between Alfred and Dick by the time he realized that he was merely planning on stitching up some of the deeper cuts that litter Dick’s body.

Bruce had, instead, rushed off to spit bile into the toilet. He’d blamed it on nausea from the drugs. Even though there’s nothing in his system, and there hasn't been for a while.

Now he just sits, unable to do anything but wait. His heart is still aching, hurting so bad that he is vaguely worried he might be having a heart attack.

“I didn’t just watch,” he snarls. Anger rolls through him in waves, cresting well above his head, drowning him. “I did it. It was my hands. It was me. I hurt him.” He slumps suddenly, feeling like a puppet with all his strings cut. “He’ll never want to see me again. I’ve lost him, Alfred. I can’t—”

“Master Bruce, we both know you would never do such a thing—”

“But I did! Every single mark on his skin is my doing. I stitched his mouth shut. I can’t… I can’t ever undo that.”

Alfred inhales sharply, and Bruce can hear him breathing deeply as he tries to gather his thoughts and composure. Alfred loves Dick. That’s his first grandchild, a boy he helped raise from nine, who he made after school snacks for and bandaged his skinned knees and called him every single week when Bruce was too cowardly and stupid to get his head out of his ass. Dick is precious, and Alfred knows that better than anyone. 

“What _exactly_ happened?” 

He can’t look at Alfred as he explains, far too ashamed. “Either I hurt him, or they would.”

“And you knew you could be gentler than they would be,” Alfred fills in the blanks. “You did what you thought was best, my boy. You tried to spare him whatever pain you could.”

Bruce shakes his head, gazing at Dick’s unconscious form across the Cave. “I saw his expression. He was so scared, so _hurt._ I can never face him again.”

“And that is far more cruel than any cut or bruise,” Alfred snaps, cold fury in his eyes. “He is your son, Bruce. He will accept your explanation, and he will want the comfort of his father who never wanted to hurt him. Don’t you dare turn your back on him.”

“I don’t want to,” he whispers, still watching Dick. His chest rises and falls steadily, swathed in bandages to hide the bat.

“Then don’t.” Alfred squeezes his shoulder once again, but this time Bruce doesn’t pull away.

“When do you think he’ll wake?” he asks eventually.

“Not for some time now, but don’t worry about that. He _will_ heal, Master Bruce.” Bruce isn't so sure he can say the same about himself.

* * *

Against his better judgement, Bruce spends the next three days at Dick’s bedside, waiting for him to wake up. At the very least, he needs to see his son awake and alive. He would like to remember what Dick’s eyes look like when they’re not clouded over in pain.

At the same time, he dreads the moment that Dick wakes up. He’s terrified, as much as it pains him to admit it, terrified of what his son will do when he spies his torturer sitting by his bedside.

As though he can hear Bruce’s own worried thoughts, Dick begins to stir. His fingers twitch first, then a soft noise escapes his mouth, and finally, finally, his eyes blink open. He gazes around in confusion before his eyes land on Bruce.

And that’s where it goes wrong. Dick jolts back, head slamming into his stack of pillows, and then whines slightly when the motion tugs at his injuries. 

“Oh, Dickie…” Bruce whispers. He’s not wearing the cowl, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Trauma is funny like that. “I won’t hurt you,” he insists, heart cracking all over again. “I won’t hurt you. We aren’t there anymore. You’re safe. No one will hurt you now.”

Dick nods, gasping. His eyes are screwed shut, but he seems to be calming down just slightly. Bruce catches his wrist when he reaches up to feel his mouth. Gently, he lays his arm back down on the mattress before pulling his hand away.

“Don’t touch that,” he chides gently. Dick’s lips are healing nicely, but Bruce doesn’t want him to do anything to aggravate them at all. “Are you in any pain?” Bruce reaches for the IV line, ready to adjust the drugs flowing into Dick’s veins.

Dick shakes his head. Slowly, he blinks his eyes open. They’re hazy with sleep and the effects of the pain medication, but otherwise clear. At the very least, he seems to recognize where he is. And who is sitting beside him.

Bruce knows what it looks like when Dick is being hypervigilant. He himself taught the boy to have caution and be prepared, although he hates seeing Dick be so wary of _him._ Though, he supposes it’s not unjustified.

“They forced me to,” Bruce blurts out, staring at anything other than Dick’s face. “Either I… _hurt_ you, or they would do even worse. I know that it’s no excuse, but all I wanted was to spare you whatever pain I could. It doesn’t justify what I did. I’m sorry, Dick. I’m so sorry.”

Silence falls over them. It feels heavy, overwhelming, all-consuming. Bruce feels like he’s falling apart over and over again. 

He’s lost his son. He’s lost Dick forever.

“I just…” The words stick in his throat. Nothing he can say or do feels worthy. “I just wanted to explain. I’ll leave you alone now.”

He stands up, turning to leave, when a weak grip curls around his wrist, stopping him in his tracks.

“Please don’t go,” Dick rasps. Bruce knows just those three words must have been so painful to say.

“Are you sure?” he asks. He waits for Dick’s small nod before he sinks back into the chair. Dick’s hand is still gripping his wrist. Slowly, cautiously, Bruce shifts his hold so that his own hand is wrapped around Dick’s. When Dick doesn’t flinch or pull away, he allows his grip to be a little firmer. He wants to cling, to hold on and never let go.

“Okay,” he says, then a little firmer, “Okay. How are you feeling?”

Dick shrugs weakly. “Not the best, but…” He coughs. “I’ve had worse.” He has, but he’s never had Batman’s symbol carved into his skin (and that is likely to stay. Forever.) and he’s never had the person who was supposed to be his father stitch his mouth shut and torture him. It isn’t the physical effects that have Bruce worried.

“I’m so sorry,” Bruce says again. 

“I know.” He can tell Dick is really struggling with him being here, but he’s still gripping Bruce’s hand, so for now Bruce is frozen in place. He will stay right here, as long as Dick wants him to.

“I never wanted to—”

“I know,” Dick says again, more forcefully this time. Bruce can hear the irritation in his voice and clamps his mouth shut in response.

The silence between them stretches out uncomfortably. Bruce doesn’t know what to do or say. He’s completely unsure as to how they’re supposed to move on from here.

Dick must feel the same way. “Are we going to be okay?” he eventually asks hesitantly.

Bruce chokes once, sudden, sharp, and incredulous. “You’re asking _me_? Dickie, I…”

“I know,” Dick says. “And I… It’s gonna take me some time too, but. I don’t want to lose you. I just want us to be okay again. Eventually.”

“Of course,” he says instantly. “Dick, I’ll do everything in my power… I was so scared. I’m sorry,” he adds again, unable to stop the apology from slipping out because he’ll never be able to say it enough times. 

“Can you…” Dick winces. “Can you sit with me? Up here? It’s—It’s kinda hard to be near you right now, but I—I don’t want it to be. I know it wasn’t your fault. I forgive you, even if it’s just taking my heart a little bit of time to catch up, you know?”

Bruce’s stomach sinks to his toes. “I can go—”

“Stop being obtuse, B,” Dick snaps weakly. “I just said I wanted you here.”

“Is this some sort of exposure therapy?” Bruce asks as he helps Dick shift over before tentatively settling in on the mattress beside him. 

“Maybe,” Dick says. He takes Bruce’s hand, playing with his fingers the way he used to when he was littler. Bruce blinks a few times to remind himself that said hand isn’t still soaked with Dick’s blood. “Maybe I just don’t want to be alone.”

“I can go get Alfred…”

“No.” Dick punctuates this by burying down against Bruce’s side. He nudges at Bruce’s arm until he raises it to wind around Dick’s shoulders. He waits for Dick to stiffen or flinch, but nothing happens. If anything, Dick relaxes more, a sigh escaping him as he melts against Bruce’s chest.

“I love you,” Bruce says. The words don’t feel like enough to capture the pure, crushing emotion that threatens to cave his chest in. He presses a kiss to the top of Dick’s head and then stays there, lingering in Dick’s space as he breathes in the scent of shampoo. “I love you so much, son. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Dick says. “Will you talk? I want to hear your voice.”

“Alright,” Bruce acquiesces. “Anything in particular you want to hear?”

“No. Just whatever comes to mind. Something happy.”

Not a lot of happiness has been on his mind lately, but when he looks at Dick, when he looks past the bandages and the stitches and the scars, he can still see his boy. His boy, who brought light and happiness back to his life all those years ago. His boy, who makes him prouder than he ever thought possible. The best thing that’s ever happened to him.

“The first moment… The first moment I knew I loved you, that you were my son…” He feels Dick shift beside him, stiffen just slightly. But he stays quiet, just breathing, so Bruce continues. “It was the day before your tenth birthday. I let you stay up later than usual, so I wound up having to carry you to bed, since you insisted your ‘legs didn’t work this late.’” Dick snorts softly beside him. “I was reading to you, and you had toothpaste on your mouth, and then you fell asleep with your head on my shoulder and when I looked down, suddenly it was as though everything just clicked into place. You were the most important epiphany of my life, chum.”

“Bruce…”

“I love you. I didn’t say it then, and I still don’t say it enough. I’m sorry—”

“Hush,” Dick interrupts. “I love you too, but I want happy right now, B. None of this gloominess.”

Bruce smiles despite himself and pulls Dick in even closer, closing his eyes as he rests his cheek against Dick's hair. “Alright, alright. Do you remember when I was teaching you to drive…”


End file.
